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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25548922">I’m sorry to inform you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389'>Randomfandoms389</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Human AU, M/M, happy(ish) ending though, mentions of France/Canada, mentions of Hungary/Austria/Prussia, secret agents, this got kinda sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:42:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25548922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gets hurt. Alfred... doesn't really take it well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>America/England (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I’m sorry to inform you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dug out an old fic that I never got round to posting since all my current wips weren't cooperating</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“You really need to stop doing this.”</p><p>Alfred keeps his hands steady by sheer force of stubbornness and doesn't look away from the bone-white of the bandages he’s winding around Arthur’s torso. He tries for lightness, levity because if he doesn't, he's going to cry and neither of them really needs that right now. From his spot on the bed next to Alfred, Arthur is quiet. He’s been quiet since Alfred had run into the hospital room with clammy palms and restrained panic making his breaths stick in his throat, to find him lying in that bed so pale and still that he might have been dead if not for the steady beeping of the heart monitor in the background. Alfred might love that stupid heart monitor. Maybe he’ll rig up something like that in their wedding rings when he has a spare second, something small and wireless, so he can feel Arthur’s heartbeat all the time and know that his big stupid idiot hasn't gotten himself killed in the field (not that Arthur wears his ring out on missions, of course, Alfred knows that, he's just being stupid now) with Alfred none the wiser in his workshop that somewhere his husband is bleeding out and going cold -</p><p>Arthur’s warm under his hands. </p><p>Warm and breathing and alive but when Alfred looks at him, he keeps thinking about cold hospital coffee and too-bright lights and <em>internal bleeding </em>and <em>blunt trauma </em>and <em>he got lucky this time. </em>This time. Francis is still in the hospital. Alfred really should give Mattie a call; his brother was probably a wreck. He doesn't know what happened to Elizabeta or Roderich but it can't be too bad because he hasn't gotten an email from his boss saying that Gilbert had stolen all the tech in the workshop and was gonna like, make an army of A.I. to hunt down the people responsible. </p><p>His hands are shaking now. Alfred has been on days-long, coffee-fuelled, inventing-slash-testing binges in the workshop and felt less exhausted afterwards. He doesn't think he’s gotten a full night’s sleep in -fuck he doesn't even <em>know </em>anymore. A while. Yes, <em>a while,</em> that worked, it was such a nice, non-committal number. Alfred hasn't slept in a while, not since he’d gotten that awful call and then looked up just in time to see the colour drain from Gil’s face as he put down the helmet they’d been tinkering with, hand going to the earpiece almost hidden under his white hair because he must have gotten a call too, gotten the <em> I’m sorry to inform you</em>.</p><p>It didn't really get better, that terrible twisting fear in his gut that always hit him when he least expected it, even after Arthur had been cleared to come home. Most nights, Alfred stays awake, watching the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, until he's absolutely sure that his husband is asleep. Then he gets up and quietly drags the foldable mattress out from under their bed because Alfred’s always been a restless sleeper and he's so fucking scared that he’ll fall asleep and only wake up after he's rolled half on top of Arthur and reopened fuck only knew how many injuries or messed up that broken arm even more. </p><p>That foldable is so shitty that Alfred doesn't know why they still keep it. It’s all sad and lumpy and Alfred always wakes up with a sore back in the morning, an hour or two before Arthur usually does so he can put away the mattress and get back in the bed proper. It’s so fucking stupid and he’d never have gotten away with it if Arthur hadn't been in shit shape. As it is, Alfred thinks he's only managed so far because he's been sneaking painkillers into Arthur’s tea every night and Arthur’s been pretending that he doesn't notice because he’s feeling guilty. Stubborn old man, refusing to just <em>take the fucking pills </em>like he wasn't in constant pain all the time. </p><p> </p><p>It’s funny. When people think about dating a secret agent, they think car chases, flashy action sequences. Kissing as some shit blows up in the background. Not sitting around, worrying about whether said secret agent was okay or if they were hurt or captured or dyin -- okay, not thinking about that right now. </p><p>God. He’d actually thought the scars were cool. At first. Kinda hot, even. Not anymore though, not after the first time he’d gotten the <em> I’m sorry to inform you </em>and been told that Arthur was in the hospital after a mission gone wrong.</p><p>Yeah, there are perks. For their anniversary last year, Arthur had pulled some strings and gotten tickets to Alfred’s favourite band that had been sold out months ago. Plus a small plane. And a really fancy suite. That they had promptly made the most of by having sex on almost every surface. That’s another thing; the sex is pretty great because having someone that can literally lift you up and pin you against the wall to fuck you is really hot. </p><p>On the other hand, guns are fucking terrifying when they're being pointed at your husband and not being dissected on the table for you to improve them. </p><p>Alfred’s in R&amp;D, okay? It’s how they met, him and Arthur. Yelling at each other across the stainless steel tables because they had an… ah, <em>difference in opinion </em> , as Arthur liked to call it. Something about the standard suits that agents got, he thinks. Or was it about the weapons? Nevermind, he still has to get the bruise cream for that giant splotch of colour across Arthur’s chest. He thinks it was from a piece of rebar someone had hit him with. Cracked ribs. Any harder and he could have ended up with broken ones. Broken ribs <em>really </em>weren't good, from what Alfred had gleaned from the fifteen minutes of googling he had managed to do while waiting for Arthur to get out of surgery, before he’d gotten too nauseous to continue reading about collapsed lungs and organ damage. </p><p>For the record, Alfred doesn't <em>exactly </em>have clearance to know about Arthur’s missions, but well, people like him. He's got his foot in the door with a lot of people in a lot of departments and sometimes they let him know how things went when Arthur’s being stubborn and trying not to worry him. That’s… better than what civilian partners get at least. He thinks. Years and years of this and Alfred still can't decide whether knowing or not knowing is better. </p><p>His vision is getting blurry, which is a sign that Alfred should quit while he’s ahead and stop thinking before he actually bursts into tears. Cream applied, he caps the container and drops it back on the bed. </p><p>“How’s the arm?” His voice is almost steady. </p><p>“Itchy,” Arthur tells him, a bit dryly, which is better than <em>fine </em>because no one who says that they're <em>fine </em>ever means it. Alfred risks a glance at his face when it feels like the threat of tears has subsided and Arthur offers him a half-smile that pulls at the shallow cut on his cheek. It looks as tired as Alfred feels. There isn't much damage to Arthur’s face this time, just some scrapes and the shadow of a bruise on his jaw. Back at the hospital, Alfred had made a joke that <em>see? even the enemy could respect art </em> and Arthur had pretended to laugh even though it must have hurt his ribs.</p><p>Arthur’s not gonna quit, Alfred knows. He won't ever admit it, but he likes the rush, the adrenaline, the thrill of the hunt. It’s like how Alfred is with his gadgets and it won't be fair to make him stop because he <em>would </em>stop if Alfred asked him to. Arthur had offered, once, after that time he’d gotten shot and his heart had fucking <em>stopped </em> and Alfred had just about lost it. Crying, screaming, throwing stuff at the walls. Not exactly his proudest moment. He'd calmed down by the time Arthur had woken up, groggy from all the painkillers they'd given him, but someone must've told him anyway because Arthur had coaxed Alfred onto the bed with him at some point. He'd looked so tired, shadows under his eyes so dark they'd looked like bruises. He'd put his head on Alfred's shoulder, made the quiet offer because Arthur did love him. And Alfred had actually thought about it even though he knew Arthur would be miserable with a desk job because he was just so fucking sick of being scared that one day, he’ll get the call again and it won't be <em> I’m sorry to inform you </em> but <em> I’m sorry for your loss </em>and then he won't be picking up Arthur from the hospital but the morgue. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” he says to the bloodied bandages he's fiddling with. It’s gross and he has to throw them away, but he doesn't get up from the bed. “You know that, right?”</p><p>“I know,” Arthur says back after a pause. He reaches over, cards his good hand through Alfred’s hair, tugging him in gently so he can bury his face in Arthur’s shoulder. It’s one of the few places that aren't currently covered in bandages or mottled black and blue. “I love you too.” Arthur smells mostly like antiseptic and the faint minty tinge of the creams Alfred had slathered liberally over his bruises. (He didn't really need the help but it made Alfred feel better anyway.) Nothing of the bitter tea and old books that Arthur normally smelled of. Just hospital smells. Alfred kinda hates it. </p><p>He sniffles even though he tries not to and feels Arthur press a soft kiss into his hair. </p><p>“We can put on that cartoon you like, love,” Arthur says. From anyone else, it might be patronising, but not Arthur, who’s clearly grasping at straws. He’s awful with tears, gets so flustered and fluttery and guilty that it would be funny if Alfred had been in any mood to laugh. “The one with the sponge and the starfish?” </p><p>“You hate Spongebob.”</p><p>“But you don't,” Arthur says back bravely, which is very sweet of him, but Alfred doesn't think that Arthur’s blood pressure could take a Spongebob Squarepants marathon right now. Maybe after he recovers. </p><p>“Nah. I’ve got Steven Universe on my laptop though?”</p><p>“Oh. The one with the er, jewel people?” Arthur, bless him, was trying. The man knew like, five languages and probably fifty ways to kill someone with a spork, but folded the second it came to this kind of stuff. He was so bad at it that it was actually cute. <em> Such an old man. </em></p><p>“Gems, yeah. I’ll go get my laptop.”</p><p>This was all right. Arthur was safe, curled up in bed with him. He's wriggling carefully into one of Alfred’s comfy old hoodies; slow, to avoid jostling his injuries. So he was a little banged up, but he was safe and warm, where Alfred could keep an eye on him. It won't stay like that, of course, but Alfred had known that from the start and he’s in too deep to back out now. He’d fallen hard years ago, gotten too involved to even <em>consider </em>ever cutting his losses and running, no matter what Arthur’s periodic absences and close-calls do to him. And maybe that makes him stupid, but well, his mama had always said he was a fool. ( <em> Mark my words, Alfie, that boy of yours is gonna break your heart one day-) </em></p><p>A fool in love, then. Because whenever Alfred thinks about green eyes and fluffy blond hair that won't stay flat no matter what, about the piles of books (and concealed weaponry) slowly taking over the house, about burnt scones and the taste of bitter tea on his tongue in the morning after stolen kisses over the breakfast table, and that small, soft smile of Arthur's that only he gets to see… well. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't think he minds being a fool for Arthur. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>do I know anything about major injuries? no! so should I have at least done a half-assed search for recovery periods/treatments etc? probably! did I though? no. also I have yet to watch steven universe but gosh do I want to, if only to get in on all the sweet, sweet fanart I've seen on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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